


the world embraced me

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Retirement, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25900927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: “It does you well, I think, to be reminded that you are loved unconditionally and forever, just as you are.” Jaskier’s hands find Geralt’s where they’re at, folded together in his lap. His fingers are not much softer than Geralt’s, but they feel like the softest down pillow. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”Geralt nuzzles the junction of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck, scenting the warmth. It’s apples and cider and honeysuckle and sea salt; it’s home, the one Geralt chose for himself when he understood that he could have anything and everything he ever wished for. “I’ll take an early winter. We’ll journey to Kaer Morhen before the others, have a bit of time for ourselves before the keep gets packed.”“That isn’t what I mean.”-Jaskier asks Geralt to retire from the path. Geralt thinks that's a wonderful idea.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 433





	the world embraced me

**Author's Note:**

> there's no reason for this other than i wanted to write something soft for these two.
> 
> set a decade post rare species because we don’t have time for angst <3

The horizon is painted blue, nearly the same shade as the never-ending sea, when Geralt walks through the door of the cottage tucked into the hillside. The floorboards creak under his weight, used to his presence but still angry that he’s so large in a home so small; he winces and does his best to avoid the noisiest paths, fearful that he’ll wake Jaskier up if he’s too loud.

He inhales deeply, delighting in the scent of home: apples and warmth and sea salt and honeysuckle. A small, easy smile pulls at his lips. He never expected it would be like this, and yet. And yet.

Guided by the steadily receding blue light from outside, he meanders between the large wooden tables, down the corridor to the side, unlacing the stitches of his armor as he goes. It’s filthy and in need of a scrub and a good oiling, as is his words, and he shoves the mass into the washroom, vowing he’ll see to it later after a bit of rest and wash himself. He is in no mood to bother with something as trivial as cleaning his armor when he has a warm bed to crawl in and a soft body to curl against.

At the end of the corridor, the bedroom door is cracked open; through the slit, he can see the large bed Jaskier begged to purchase. It’s covered in quilts and pillows, another plea from Jaskier, though Geralt sees the appeal in it, too, and, sprawled in the middle, half beneath a thin sheet, is Jaskier. His hair, thick and curly from the sea, the color of brown sugar, is spread out on one of the down pillows.

Geralt’s grin grows into a smile. He feels like it belongs. 

He shrugs out of his shirt and uses the cleanest corner to wipe off as much ichor and sweat as he can. He kicks his britches off and kneels on the big bed, moving on his hands and knees until he’s next to Jaskier. He lays on his side and tucks himself against Jaskier’s side, and sighs, and runs his fingertips along Jaskier’s exposed skin.

Gooseflesh arises, a peculiar sensation beneath his fingertips. It’s a delight, to see the way Jaskier’s body reacts to his touch. He presses his lips against Jaskier’s flesh and laughs, lightly, when he begins to rouse from his sleep.

“Hmm.” Jaskier turns his face toward Geralt and opens one eye into a half-slit. He all but purrs, something he’s picked up through the years of wintering at Kaer Morhen with Geralt and his brothers, and smiles, soft and sweet, just this side of too lovely. “Geralt.”

Geralt brushes his hand up over the messy swell of Jaskier’s curls. “Hi.”

Jaskier adjusts and cuddles into Geralt’s chest, tucking his hands against Geralt’s heart. “You smell terribly,” he says, and the words are muffled by Geralt’s skin.

“I’ll change the bedding later.”

“Yes, you will.” Jaskier sighs and runs his hands across the expanse of Geralt’s chest, along his side and over his back and up, again, to his shoulders. It’s been a few days since they’ve lain next to one another; the contract took a bit longer than they expected, even with Ciri working at his side. “Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.” Geralt hasn’t lied to Jaskier in—years, really, after he went in search of the bastard and groveled for an entire week for the harsh things he shouted at him on top of that mountain. He has lived a long, limitless life, and it is sure to stretch out for far longer; he will do anything to keep Jaskier by his side for the years that remain. “Touch.”

He takes hold of one of Jaskier’s hands and pushes it down. There’s a thick bandage on the top of his hip; the wound isn’t deep and will be healed in a few more hours, but Ciri was adamant about cleaning and at least wrapping it before she sent him on his way to the cottage, opting to stay behind at the village for the payment.

She will be here, soon, Geralt is sure. Yennefer will be, as well, and Triss not far behind; the three of them and Geralt and Jaskier will pack up and make their travel for Kaer Morhen after. 

“It’s wrapped well,” Jaskier muses, fingering the edges of the wrap. “Ciri?”

Geralt nods. “Of course.”

“She’s learning well.” There’s a hint of pride in Jaskier’s tone that Geralt can’t blame him for. After groveling for a week, Geralt brought Jaskier to meet Ciri, who skittishly hid behind the expanse of Yennefer’s skirts before Jaskier coaxed a slight smile out of her with a few pretty words, and the two of them have been thick as thieves since, often allying in order to tease Geralt mercilessly. He loves it as much as he pretends he doesn’t. “What time is it?”

“The sun still isn’t up,” he answers, and then he has a sudden thought. “Come watch it rise with me.”

“No.”

Geralt presses a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head. “Yes.”

Jaskier huffs. “What’s in it for me?”

“Hmm.” Geralt feigns deep thought for a moment. “A few kisses, a warm bath with me once we return.” He puts his lips to Jaskier’s forehead and tastes clean skin and faint sweat. There is a warmth in that raw touch that is hotter than hellfire and as inviting as the gates to nirvana. “I may even kiss your pretty ass.”

Jaskier laughs, and it is better than all the music in the land, happiness meant only for Geralt. “You do that anyway.”

“I do.” He finds Jaskier’s chin—a bit chubby, now that they make a habit of settling in one place for the seasons and coin isn’t as elusive as it was ten years ago—and brings their mouths together in a chaste kiss. Geralt licks against Jaskier’s lips, and Jaskier tastes like sleep and honey biscuits, a treat that he often seeks out in the middle of the night. Against Jaskier’s lips, Geralt whispers, “Come watch the sunrise with me.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer. He kisses Geralt again, harder, wetter, and curls his tongue inside Geralt’s mouth; he shoves Geralt on to his back and crawls up to sit low on his thighs, a heady weight that brings a growl from Geralt’s chest. His fingers shove and sift through Geralt’s hair, brushing and grasping, and Geralt, along for the ride, holds Jaskier’s hips, sinking his fingertips in the tiny dips just below the swell and lets himself be kissed until he is breathless.

Sometimes Geralt’s thoughts carry off on their own accord, and he imagines, vividly, how his life would have been if he never met Jaskier, and it is always blank and dark and colorless, an endless sea of white with no sound, no laughter, no love, no music. Nothing to remember for pleasure, and yet all he knew.

Before, he was alone for so long. So long. And now—there is not a day that goes by where he feels that cavernous mass of loneliness because he knows that Jaskier is waiting for him to return at the end of every contract, at the end of every day.

One of the rarest things in the world is living a life worth loving and remembering. He has found that with Jaskier.

As hard as it is, Geralt pulls away from Jaskier’s greedy mouth and moves off the bed. He gathers a clean shirt for himself and wraps a knitted shawl around his shoulders. It’s warm and smells like Yennefer, gooseberries and lilac and earth. He foregoes pulling his boots back on, deciding that it will feel pleasant to have the grainy sand sift between his toes. It’s an elementary joy he has come to love.

He turns and looks at Jaskier, still sprawled on the bed. His hair is messy and his smallclothes are haphazard on his body, too big and clearly belonging to Geralt. That makes Geralt hot—seeing his man in his clothing satiates a primal urge deep in his soul.

“Jaskier, get up.”

Jaskier makes a face and rolls over onto his back, looking up at Geralt upside down. He blinks. “Carry me?” he asks, spoiled by Geralt’s affection. 

“No.”

Jaskier sighs, indignant and put-upon. “You loathe me.”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hands and pulls him up off the bed and onto his feet, steadying him before he falls over. “I adore you.” Geralt puts his cloak on Jaskier and kisses the tip of his nose; there’s no such thing as too many kisses between them. Not now when he knows that he doesn’t have to hold his love and his care back. “Come.”

Jaskier leans forward to give Geralt a quick kiss on the lips before he leads Geralt out of their bedroom and down the corridor, through the small cottage they spend their summers in and out the door.

The sea stretches like an endless tree root that has been growing for millennia. The sun, a sphere so dark orange it is nearly a blood red, is just beginning to rise. Colors of apricot and cerulean and moss reach across the horizon like the stretch of hot taffy, melding up toward feathery white clouds and deep, dark blue sky. The air is crisp, only slightly chilly, and heavy with the scent of salt and fish; the tide laps at the sand, wetting it till it’s the same color as Jaskier’s wispy hair.

“Hold my hand?” Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s hand, interacting their fingers. “I don’t want you to fall, darling.”

Geralt raises a brow. “Funny.”

“I thought so.” Jaskier gives him a cheeky grin. He is an insufferable bastard, odd and more than a little obscure, an anomaly among other bards and artists alike, and yet Geralt loves him so, with a devotion that digs deep.

“You’re not nearly as hilarious as you think you are.”

Jaskier ignores Geralt’s jibe and plops himself down on the sand, far enough away from the tide that it ought to not get them wet. He gets comfortable, crossing his legs and settling the ends of the cloak around his thighs, mumbling under his breath about getting dirty and fussing as he does.

He is so—annoyingly endearing, honestly; Geralt has never before met someone who he clashes with so vehemently and loves so passionately, so intimately, all at once. Most people are amalgamations of the best and worst parts of people they have met before, their lives and opinions a mimicry of what is known and what is experienced already. Jaskier is wholly his own person, out of this world and shamelessly himself, brave with the same kind of courage that it takes to be the first leaf to fall off a tree at the change of the season.

And now that he knows Jaskier will live just as long as he will, for many years to come, he doesn’t feel the need to hold back any more. He gives in everyday, every hour, to Jaskier, with an eagerness so gratifying that it could part the sea before them.

It’s a rumor that witchers don’t feel. A myth, a sugared tale to ease the guilt that humans may feel when they send a witcher off to kill a beast or to best an unconquerable feat only for them to not return, certainly succumbing to an untimely death. Similar to Jaskier’s ballads—respect does not make history, as he said years ago, and history loves to forget the people who would rather walk away than begin a war.

History remembers anger and hatred; history is painted red with blood and misguided passion. History does not care for peace, even though it so often pretends to.

It is simple fact, really. Geralt feels. Geralt feels a lot—he is made up of sticky emotions, all sorts of hidden thoughts that he buries deep within his mind because his heart is a traitorous, fat organ that gets him in trouble more often than not. And he feels so much for the bard at his feet, colored in the fresh light of dawn.

He was alone in this world for so long, empty for so long. But Jaskier came along, bawdy and bright, and he filled Geralt full till he was bursting at the seams. Even now, he feels large and swollen, fat with that freedom Jaskier brings him.

Perhaps it’s indulgently misconceived, but Geralt believes that everything that was taken out of him might have been to clear space for something better.

Jaskier is something better.

He sighs and sits down behind Jaskier, stretching his legs to bracket Jaskier on either side. He wiggles his toes, burying them in the sand, and adjusts his shawl. It’s not cold, but the early morning breeze off the water is cool.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him quizzically. “What are you doing?” he demands, almost haughtily. “Sit next to me.”

Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist and pulls him back till they’re flush, spine to sternum. “I want to hold you like this,” he answers, blowing Jaskier’s fluffy hair off his neck before he puts a kiss at the jutting top of his backbone.

“Oh.” Beneath his lips, Geralt feels Jaskier’s skin heat with his blush. Even after all these years spent with one another, Jaskier still acts as if it is the first time every time Geralt shows him simple, casual affection, with an awe of disbelief. Geralt never tires of it.

Geralt kisses Jaskier’s temple. “Thank you for coming with me.”

Jaskier makes a noise that is most-assuredly a squeal. “It’s scarcely a hardship, my love.” He leans heavily against Geralt’s chest, getting comfortable. “There is nothing I would not do for you.”

“Practicing your vows?”

It’s a tease, but Jaskier huffs regardless. It’s been three years since Geralt has asked Jaskier for his hand, and though Geralt feels no need to hurry Jaskier along, he yearns for the comfort of binding himself to Jaskier in front of their family. The ceremony and subsequent celebrations will only be performative; it is giving definite meaning to the commitment between them, as mundane as that is.

Still, though. Geralt wants. He yearns. He is a man, after all.

“It does you well, I think, to be reminded that you are loved unconditionally and forever, just as you are.” Jaskier’s hands find Geralt’s where they’re at, folded together in his lap. His fingers are not much softer than Geralt’s—years of playing the lute’s strings, of helping Ciri train, of learning to live the life he was hidden from since he was an infant, have made Jaskier a bit harder than an average bard—but they feel like the softest down pillow. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

Geralt nuzzles the junction of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck, scenting the warmth. It’s apples and cider and honeysuckle and sea salt; it’s home, the one Geralt chose for himself when he understood that he could have anything and everything he ever wished for. “I’ll take an early winter. We’ll journey to Kaer Morhen before the others, have a bit of time for ourselves before the keep gets packed.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

Geralt hums and hooks his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder. Like this, wrapped in Geralt’s arms and wearing Geralt’s cloak, Jaskier smells like Geralt, too, a bit of musk and earth and pine that mixes with his natural scent. It’s heady.

“Explain to me what you mean, then,” he says.

Jaskier takes a breath. “It’s simple, darling,” he begins, fiddling with a faint pink scar that expands the width of Geralt’s palm. “I want to go to sleep next to you every night, and wake up next to you every morning. I want to hold you in my arms, and not have to worry where I place my hands for fear that I’ll reopen your wounds.” He presses his thumbnail into the scar a bit too hard, as if demonstrating. “I want to never smell the scent of viscera in your pretty hair again. I want to feel your warmth against me. I want to wake up, and see your tangled hair on the pillows, and know that my reality is far better than any dream I may have.”

Warmth erupts and expands in Geralt’s chest. His heart, so slow and steady, speeds only for Jaskier. “Is that all?” he asks, so quietly that the lapping tide nearly drags his question away. 

“No. No, Geralt, it is not.” Jaskier turns and kisses Geralt on the mouth, fiercely. “I want mornings spent in bed with you, while we wait for the sun to climb high in the sky and draw us out for a swim in the sea before we have breakfast with one another. I want evenings spent with you, while I compose and you read or write to Vesemir. I want days where we take Roach along the coast, and visit festivals with Ciri and Yen and Triss. I want everything, Geralt.” He holds Geralt’s hand as tightly as he did when the djinn’s magic nearly killed him years ago. “I want all of that and more with you.”

Geralt is silent for a moment, rolling over Jaskier’s words. He was told as a young boy, back when his hair was still dark and his eyes were still green, that witchers do not retire. Instead, retirement comes in the form of being overcome by a creature after decades on the path; a marked grave is a blessing.

Or so Geralt used to think. He is not so sure now.

Ciri is coming into her own. She is bright and ferocious and strong, a worthy contender; a decade spent learning with Geralt and Yennefer and Jaskier, and they’re extended family—Triss, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert—have given her skills and a mastery far beyond her years. Perhaps it is time Geralt steps down and gives room for his cub to create a legend of her own.

He’s sure Jaskier will sing her praises for the many years to come.

Now, though, perhaps it is his time to relax. He is still young, and strong, with many years stretching before him; there is no hard decision to make if the choice is between spending those years fighting creatures who are existing the only way they know how or making his forever home at Jaskier’s side.

Geralt takes a breath. “Okay.”

“What?”

“I said okay.” He presses his cheek against Jaskier’s, feeling as if his air has been stolen from his lungs. “I will retire from the path.”

Jaskier blinks; Geralt can hear it. “Is that it?”

He nods. “That’s it.”

Jaskier turns in Geralt’s arms completely, so he can look at him, at the man he will vow, eventually, in front of their family, to spend the rest of his life—and it is going to be long, too—with a look of total disbelief. “Are you serious?” he asks, sounding almost too scared to believe, to hope. 

“Yes, Jaskier.” He cradles Jaskier’s face in his hands, astonished, still, that he is allowed—that he is wanted—to do this. “It’s the same for me. You have to know. Without you I would go mad.” He kisses Jaskier’s forehead, nose, both of his cheeks, as reverent as the first touch of a father’s fingers across a newborn’s forehead. “You do know, don’t you?”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose; his cheeks are red and his eyes are bright, more blue than the sea, than the sky coming to life just behind his back. “Well—well, sometimes it’s nice to have a reminder.”

“Oh.” He winces; he should be spending more time showing Jaskier that he is loved and cherished and adored than mucking up their summer cottage with viscera. “Oh, Jaskier.” He kisses Jaskier’s lips, licks inside Jaskier’s mouth for a quick moment before pulling away. “I come home to you, Jaskier. Here, to you and this tiny cottage you’ve picked out by the sea. I love the home you’ve made for us, wherever it is.” He smiles. It’s something he hasn’t felt the need to hide for years. “I love you.”

“Yeah?”

Geralt nods. “Yeah.”

Jaskier grins like he has been handed the world in his bare palms. Perhaps he has. “So, that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I get to keep you all to myself?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’ve always had me.”

Jaskier slants his head. His lips curl in a playful smirk. “Have I?”

“Yes.” The years before, spent together and apart as their paths melded and branched, were a lead-up to the best moments of his life. “And you will have me for the rest of our lives, whether we bind ourselves together with vows or not.”

“Geralt—”

“I can wait,” he hushes Jaskier’s worries before he can voice them. “I can wait to see you at my home, dressed in my clothing, as you say words that will bind your life to mine for as long as you need me to.” He brushes his finger along Jaskier’s lips just to feel the way they turn up into a smile. “I am in no hurry. We have a lifetime.” 

“It’s shaping up to be two long lifetimes spent together.”

“Yes, it is.” Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist and pulls him in, tucking him close. “Forever.”

Jaskier pushes his face into Geralt’s chest. He can’t see the sun as it continues to rise, turning from red to orange to yellow to white, so bright in the sky above that it is colorless, but Geralt doesn’t think he minds. “Forever is a long time,” he says against Geralt’s clavicle. 

“I don’t mind spending it with you,” Geralt teases, happy and light and airy, like the bubbles Ciri used to make from soap during her baths when she was younger and sharing close quarters with Geralt and Jaskier. 

Jaskier sighs and grabs Geralt’s hair with one hand and ear with the other; he pulls Geralt to his mouth and kisses him soundly. “Come on,” Jaskier says against Geralt’s lips. “Let’s go get the bedding dirtier before we change it.”

The sunrise forgotten, Geralt laughs into Jaskier’s kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Soft Mornings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26219158) by [Mythos_writing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythos_writing/pseuds/Mythos_writing)




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